Brain Chemistry

Your god is a chemical imbalance. Your paradise is the split second between the time those clock hands touch and the time your Phenotype becomes irrelevant. Those voices in your head are nowhere else but there, a slight rise in some hormone created by the anger you have at yourself. And how do you tell us all this? No speech convinces anyone but your fellow sufferers of any need for things like this. And the dead will become part of the world, mingling with you, and your chemicals, re-made to feed us all, to grow the food, to make the drugs, to build the safety that we all crave. There are fingers on buttons all over the world now. I suppose you did that, tick a box on a piece of paper in some office raising our notice of buzzing insects. But how do you value yourself in this? From the first joining of intelligent chemical soup all those billions of years ago, through the construction of vehicles to take us to the stars, everything is upwards. Except you! This planet has done its best to kill us all, all our generations from bacteria to us, with fire, with asteroids, with earthquakes, with wars, and we are still here, still able to feel and be and know what is right and what is good. And in all this I embrace everyone; I feel dragged to one side, a belief I feel is as equally unjustified as yours but you bring it home, to my home. I stand with everyone, and I mean everyone - the numbers who agree with you are as irrelevant as the dust in the wind and you will be but as dust in the wind, when that chemical turns your brain to sludge in the face of all that anger or pulls itself apart in that fire and chemical thing you hold to yourself. In my head, I have the whole day in slow-motion, the horror of the worst possible things, but I know that they mean nothing to you because you have not determined what you want this to do. It does you harm, it obviously does you harm. You think you are some famous star, burning a track through society to become a legend for mothers to tell their children. Instead they will tell of the men and women in green who came out of the smoke and floodlights, who stood black and tired in the quiet city, of the crumpled commuters waiting in shock but still aiming to carry on. While you will be nothing more than shreds of people, forced into the stones of famous buildings and sand-blasted into the sky towards something I cannot define. The little deaths, the safe endings to life in the hands of those we love are still the normal way of things. The long-life will save us all in the end. Not only will we win, we have won already.